


The Devil

by shortythescreen



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Infidelity, Murder, Other, Reader has a husband so it is implied they are attracted to men, Religious Themes, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:27:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27095023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortythescreen/pseuds/shortythescreen
Summary: When you meet the devil, you are surprised that he is not made of brimstone and hellfire but of metal and gears.
Relationships: Revenant (Apex Legends)/Reader, Revenant (Apex Legends)/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 65





	The Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Shit this out at one am. Hope y’all like it but PROCEED WITH CAUTION. There are some very graphic scenes in this in comparison to what I usually come up with so be careful! Please heed the tags!

When you meet the devil, you are surprised that he is not made of brimstone and hellfire but of metal and gears.

You sit at the other end of the table from him, at an impasse. Your steak knife is gripped tightly in your hand, as though it could somehow save you from the skeletal nightmare standing ten seats away from you. The blood of your husband’s colleague is collecting beneath your porcelain plate, their head gored open by a fork you do not know how the devil retrieved. It slowly pools, creates a thick puddle beneath your silverware, beneath your wine glass. Yet you do not flinch, staring into the devil’s eyes.

They are such a pretty gold.

He tilts his head as you two stare at one another, suspended in time. Your husband is dead at the other end of the table. You can see the back of his chair through the hole in his gut, can see how the cushioned back has been torn asunder. You can still see where his hand was resting on the thigh of his assistant, whose neck was snapped backwards so viciously that if you look closely, you can see the splintered edges of her bones poking through her bloodied skin.

The devil makes his way forward and you tense, your thighs braced in your seat, your body unmoving even as your eyes do not leave him. He stands at your flank in mere minutes, his metallic feet clicking across the granite tile of the grand ballroom.

He holds his hand out to you, his fingers long, spindly, spiderlike.

“May I have this dance?”

Your wide eyes fall to his hand, dripping with blood. With your husband’s blood. You vaguely think you should be frightened. You take it anyway.

He pulls you to your feet and towers lightyears above you. His massive body fills the room and slowly, carefully, he leads you around the ballroom in a bastardized waltz. A dance you have memorized by now, know by heart, but still you find yourself unable to keep up with his footsteps.

A twisted melody rattles from his chest, whirring like the ancient grind of machinery long since used.

“What were they, to you?” Asks the devil. He twists, allows you to glance in the direction of the guests, dead at your dining room table.

“One was my husband.” You say. The devil says nothing, and you realize that even though he has spoken, that off tune lullaby is still floating around you.

“The one who had his hand in that woman’s panties?” The devil guesses and you grimace, casting him a look that could massacre. Something like laughter sprouts from his body and his fingers that have rested politely on your hip crawl around, nails dragging against your skin so that he can press his hand against your lower back. “And the rest?”

“His colleagues.”

“Then they were no one.”

You look at the group again, the scent of their bodies already beginning to rot into your AC. The blood that was pooling beneath your plate now drips onto the ground in a steady pink, pink, pink that you’ll never unhear. You turn your eyes back to the devil’s and find within those champagne eyes a glittering amusement that almost turns them orange.

“Yes,” you say, “they were no one.”

He hums again, then slows to a stop. He takes a step back, bowing deeply to you and you return the gesture. When you see your hand, it is bloodied. Darkened red.

“What are you?” You ask, though you know the answer. “Why did you do this?”

“Do you care?”

You look over at the life that the devil has ripped from beneath your feet. The husband you married, one of his many affairs at his right. The husband you married that when you dared complain about the gilded cage he had placed you in, how you could feel the sting of its wrought iron bars even beneath the solid gold he had chosen to craft it from, he would simply give you a credit card. You look at the men and women he worked with who saw you as nothing more than a dutiful spouse, who knew of your husband and keeper’s infidelities and snickered behind your back, shook their heads at how poor and naïve you were.

“Yes,” you say, turning your gaze back to the devil and hoping he could not read your eyes as easily as you could his. That he could not hear the lie in your voice, the strange easiness that you now speak to him with that you realize he is not going to hurt you.

He closes the distance between you and bends, the spine that you can see curving downwards. His face is right in yours and you can see the red lines through his ghostly pale face, the mouth that is not quite a mouth.

“I am the anomaly that your husband and his colleagues did not account for,” says the devil, his voice lowered, in a whisper that comes out like the skipping of a CD. You do not look away. You are unable to look away. “I am the puppet whose strings have been cut. I am the prisoner who gnawed off his own hand to free himself of the chains that bound him.”

“You’re the angel that fell from heaven,” you murmur, in awe the longer you look, the more you realize what this stranger has done for you. The more you realize that Lucifer was truly one of God’s most beautiful angels.

“I came back from the dead for the heads of the skinsuits that stole mine,” he abruptly snarls, and his voice sends shivers done your spine. “I am the revenant.”

“Revenant,” you say, in a whisper, reaching up, touching the side of the metal place of his face, the blood that he had smeared on your hand dragging down his cheek like warpaint.

The devil was not made of hellfire, or brimstone. He was not made of muddy pieces or shadow or fangs and teeth like you anticipated. When you look into his eyes, though, you see the fury at having been cast from heaven and you know he has come to free you from god’s oppressive hand.


End file.
